


Hopelessly Gone and Recklessly Alive

by lipstick_blood_and_gore



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Angst, its late and i wanna get back into writing, this is p much an inner monologue type deal so whatevs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 13:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11624619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipstick_blood_and_gore/pseuds/lipstick_blood_and_gore
Summary: Angsty Fun Ghoul because who doesn't love their favs expressing emotion?





	Hopelessly Gone and Recklessly Alive

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on here !! Fun times. (dont beat me up if this sucks alright im trying to get back into writing) (also i lov u if ur reading this thank u for clicking on this train wreck) (or maybe that is why u clicked on it dundundunnnnn)

It’s nights like these when Ghoul can lean past the static and come face to face with the silence. Everything blurs around him (like an oil painting!); colors from one person to the next, each more fucking gross and vibrant than the last (what is this the eighties?). They bleed together creating the sunset. Creating the thoughts of “What’s underneath all that? Why the bright-ass yellows and cherry reds?” 

It’s nights like these that he remembers he’s someone under the hues and tones (fuck, can he even think?). Sitting in the sand brings him down, dragging him to the big ball of rock while he just wants to unhook and float off into the stars and see past, present, and future (warning: visiting the past has side effects!) He can still feel the linens on the bed and the fluffy small pillows on the sofa. Windowsills led to the normal outside and brought in a controlled breeze. Small footsteps made imprints on his heart (thump thump). Evidence that they were there at some point, that they could walk and talk and eat. That they could live (what could that even mean to him now?). He fucking misses them but can’t even remember their voices (who is he?). The tear is already running down the scars and bruises and all that shit that made him be here, that tied him to this place (forever tethered, like a dog). It lands with a soft pat no one will hear. Who can be this selfish? 

“Only fucking me,” he says to the stars and scars and the tears and fears.


End file.
